Into one of these large houses Deulin turned, and gave his destination to the Russian doorkeeper as he passed the lodge.  This was the second floor, and the door was opened by a quick-mannered man, to whom the Frenchman nodded familiarly.

“Is he up yet?” he inquired, and called the man by his Christian name.

“This hour, monsieur,” replied the servant, leading the way along a narrow corridor.  He opened a door, and stood aside for Deulin to pass into a comfortably furnished room, where Cartoner was seated at a writing-table.

“Good-morning,” said the Frenchman.  As he passed the table he took up a book and went towards the window, where he sat down in a deep arm-chair.  “Don’t let me disturb you,” he continued.  “Finish what you are doing.”

“News?” inquired Cartoner, laying aside his pen.  He looked at Deulin gravely beneath his thoughtful brows.  They were marvellously dissimilar—­these friends.

“Bah!” returned Deulin, throwing aside the book he had picked up—­Lelewel’s History of Poland, in Polish.  “I trouble for your future, Cartoner.  You take life so seriously—­you, who need not work at all.  Even uncles cannot live forever, and some day you will be in a position to lend money to poor devils of French diplomatists.  Think of that!”

He reflected for a moment.

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I have news of all sorts—­news which goes to prove that you are quite right to take an apartment instead of going to the hotel.  The Mangles arrived here this morning—­Mangles frere, Mangles soeur, and Miss Cahere.  I say, Cartoner—­” He paused, and examined his own boots with a critical air.

“I say, Cartoner, how old do you put me?”

“Fifty.”

“All that, mon cher?—­all that?  Old enough to play the part of an old fool who excels all other fools.”

Cartoner took up his pen again.  He had suddenly thought of something to put down, and in his odd, direct way proceeded to write, while Deulin watched him.

“I say,” said the Frenchman at length, and Cartoner paused, pen in hand—­“what would you think of me if I fell in love with Netty Cahere?”

“I should think you a very lucky man if Netty Cahere fell in love with you,” was the reply.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said.  “I have known you a good many years, and have gathered that that is your way of looking at things.  You want your wife to be in love with you.  Odd!  I suppose it is English.  Well, I don’t know if there is any harm done, but I certainly had a queer sensation when I saw Miss Cahere suddenly this morning.  You think her a nice girl?”

“Very nice,” replied Cartoner, gravely.

Deulin looked at him with an odd smile, but Cartoner was looking at the letter before him.

“What I like about her is her quiet ways,” suggested Deulin, tentatively.

“Yes.”